You Don’t Bring Me Flowers

Worn leather the shade of dried currants bear a halo of hand-tapped brass. Perched atop swiveling bar stools, my seven o’clock touches knees with your five. Fingertips trail the intimate curve of the hand left gently on my thigh. Tracing, twirling, thoughtful.

A band, familiar yet just this side of obscurity, laments the loss of love. Mustachioed bartenders present carefully crafted cocktails. Respects are paid. Bouquets inhaled. Sips savored. Kisses stolen and drinks exchanged to begin the ritual again. Fingers intertwined. Knuckles pressed against lips ripe with orange zest.

Mutual exchanges of pure happiness to be here. Aftershocks of exquisite flavors keep time with the upbeat melody, making unwitting co-conspirators of us. Nipping petals off edible flowers whilst the poor chap on the mic begs forgiveness. He loves her. She loves him not.